


Fisting

by Frayach



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Anal Fisting, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Season/Series 01, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-23
Updated: 2013-10-23
Packaged: 2017-12-30 07:13:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1015677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frayach/pseuds/Frayach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><img/><br/>Brian teaches Justin the art of handballing.</p><p>For more information on the experience of fisting, I found <a href="http://www.hellholesf.com/SAOF_Final_web.pdf">this</a> very useful and interesting.  For a spiritual take on things, I found <a href="http://www.sexinchrist.com/fist.html">this</a> unexpected and absolutely fascinating.  I certainly never knew the Bible endorses fisting.  Go figure.  Take that, Rick Santorum.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fisting

**Author's Note:**

> Brian claims to have taught Justin everything Justin knows. Alas, we are left to merely imagine the details. This is a story in the [Everything He Knows](http://archiveofourown.org/works/880530) collection of stand-alone stories. The gorgeous banner was made by Urugwaj.

FISTING

“A little knowledge is a dangerous fucking thing, Sunshine,” Brian says, and Emmett readily agrees.

“Honey, you gotta try fishin' for minnows before you go after catfish.”

Catfish? “Why are catfish such bad asses? I thought they lived in mud and were big and kinda dumb.”

“You naïve north-easterners. The little ones can swim up your fella and set up house in your bladder . . .”

“Oh for Christ’s sake,” Brian drawls from the couch where he's been crashed-out since we arrived. “That’s just a myth, Honeycutt.”

“Wanna test it? I thought not. And don’t call me ‘Honeycutt.”

“Okay, Honeycutt.”

Brian’s being an asshole because he’s sober at nine-thirty on a Saturday night . . . well, I mean even more of an asshole than usual. He’s refusing to discuss fisting. I’m only curious; it’s not like I’m going to go running off to Shop ‘n Save to buy a vat of Crisco.

“So, have either of you ever done it?” I ask conversationally from my perch on one of the barstools.

They just look at me.

“Tricycles before bicycles,” Brian says. “Your mom already hates me enough as it is. I’m not handballing your jailbait ass.”

I sigh wearily. “I’m not asking you to. I was just wondering if you’d ever had it done to you.”

Emmett cracks up laughing. “Brian a shish kabob? Now this I have to hear.”

Brian gives him a "Duh?" look. “If you’re gonna do it to someone else, you’ve got to have had it done to you first. Same as everything. Good topping practice, and as we know, I’m the best top there is. I’ll go toe-to-toe with anyone.”

“Don’t you mean ‘dick-to-dick’?” I ask. He just does that annoying barked-laugh thing he does when he’s hungry or hung-over . . . or sober on a Babylon night. Forget the Crisco, I might run to the liquor store and test out my new fake I.D. so I can replenish his stock of booze. He’s being a real kill-joy. 

Emmett looks interested. “Really? You did your time as a bottom? Do tell.”

Brian gives him the ‘yeah, that’ll happen’ expression. “Don’t tell me a connoisseur like you doesn’t hand out a fucking questionnaire to your potential tops before you let ‘em go to it?”

I picture Emmett handing a clipboard and pen to a trick like a nurse hands you paperwork to fill out in a waiting room. It’s a pretty funny thought, and I giggle. Brian frowns at me behind Emmett’s back. He hates it when I giggle; it must remind him that I’ve only recently been relieved of my virginity. Believe it or not, he does have a modicum of shame – albeit a very small modicum that is easily overcome.

“Uhm, no, actually,” Emmett replies. “But apparently I should.”

Brian turns to me and says in his teachery voice that I should never _ever_ let a novice stick his hand – or anything else – up my ass. Like I said: Mr. Kill-joy.

“What? Do people carry around references and papers certifying they’ve passed Fisting 101?” I ask.

Emmett laughs, and Brian rolls his eyes. “Ha ha. No, but there’re ways you can tell if a top knows his shit. For instance, if he doesn’t have a rubber glove on him, run for the door.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Sounds like surgery,” I say. 

Emmett nods. “Yeah, it kinda is.”

“Sounds like fun,” I reply with a heaping scoop of sarcasm on the side.

“You’re starting to depress me, Honeycutt,” Brian says, ignoring Emmett’s middle finger. “Fisting shouldn’t seem like a medical experiment. It’s the closest I get to anything spiritual, giving or receiving.”

I’m going to make a crack about the body of Christ and turning wine into lube but stop myself when I remember Emmett is still a bit of a Baptist and Brian was raised a Catholic. I don’t know the extent of eithers’ irreverence when it comes to religion, and if there’s one thing a good WASP knows, it’s to steer clear of discussions of religion and politics at all costs. 

“So do you burn incense and chant in Latin? Now _that_ I would love to see,” says Emmett. “Brian Kinney, the High Priest of Handballing.”

Brian laughs the first real laugh I’ve heard this evening. He’d had to work all day on a “boring as shit” project, and working on Saturdays is up there on the list of his favorite things with having to spend time with Mel.

“I like that,” he says. “But it’s been a while. Not that I’ve lost my expertise! But I haven’t been with a trick who’s asked for it since, I don’t know, maybe a year ago or so.”

“Do they tip you if you do a particularly good job?” Emmett asks with genuine seriousness. “Because I haven’t been tipping. What would it be? Same rate as a hairdresser or are we talking wait staff? I usually tip 20 percent for wait staff . . . well, only if Teddy’s there to lend me the money.” 

Brian laughs again. It’s a sign that my evening might go as well as I’d hoped it would (and feared that it wouldn’t). I grin and swivel around on my barstool.

“No, no one’s tipped me. But I do demand a blow job. A nice, good long one with lots of deep throat.”

“No problem then,” Emmett says. “Cock sucking is always a given when it comes to me.”

I turn my head side to side as though I'm watching a tennis match as they continue discussing the art of fellatio. I don’t mind hearing details of Brian’s exploits, but I guess I’d rather not hear about Emmett’s. It’s kind of weird, like listening to Daphne talk about making out with what’s his name. Some things you’d just rather not know.

“But back to you, Brian,” Emmett says. “How old were you?”

“I told you I’m not discussing it,” Brian replies. Emmett looks at me and gives me a conspiratorial wink when Brian leaves to use the bathroom.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ve tried this before, and it works.”

I have no idea what he’s talking about, but by the time Brian returns, Emmett has “discovered” some E in his pocket. There’s not a lot, and it’s obvious that it’d been intended for his own personal use, but apparently the situation warranted offering it to Brian, who predictably leapt on said offer.

It was only a matter of time before Brian was reminiscing about Phillip “the Fist,” the handballing guru at Adonis.

“That was back in the day before the place turned into a shithole,” he says, smiling wistfully at the tender memory. “Jesus, he was fucking huge. Hands like frying pans. Getting fisted by him was no starter package. But he was really good, really gentle. Made me fucking cry . . .”

I cringe. “I can imagine. I bet it hurt like hell.”

Brian looks at me, his eyes still gauzy with nostalgia. “Course it hurts,” he says. “But that’s not what makes you cry. It’s the release it gives you. Like acupuncture. Your body’s natural painkillers kick in, and they make you higher than any drug can.”

I look at Emmett, and he’s nodding vigorously. “It relaxes you like nothing else.”

My ass clenches up at the mere thought of it, and I raise my eyebrows skeptically. Brian shrugs.

“It’s true. Believe it or not. I think I saw God the second time I tried it. He looked a lot like Nicholas Cage. It was weird.”

Emmett guffaws, and the solemn mood is broken.

“Time for Babylon,” Brian says and pulls me to my feet. “By the way, either of you tell anyone what I said and you’ll wish heartily that you hadn’t.”

Emmett and I make zipping motions with our fingers against our mouths. Brian throws his arms over both of our shoulders. “The nighttime calls, boys,” he says and escorts us through the door.

 

We’re both high, and the crowd is buoyant with pre-holiday giddiness. The dance floor is so jammed we have to dance glued together. Not that I mind, of course. Brian's body is hot as it moves against mine. I’m not going to pass out or anything, but the room is spinning pleasantly, and my inhibitions have packed their bags and flown to my grandmother’s house in Fairfield, Connecticut a day early.

“I want you to,” I say against Brian’s mouth.

“What? Buy you a Pepsi?” He laughs at his joke. The bartender had refused to serve me tonight; clearly my new I.D. is for shit. It was highly irritating. And Brian hadn’t intervened. I think he thinks I’ve had enough intoxicating substances for the evening. Damn him. He’s like a really perverted babysitter.

“No. Fist me,” I reply.

He pulls back and places his hands on my shoulders like a stern, but indulgent, parental figure.

“Hell no,” he replies. 

I pout with genuine frustration and disappointment. “But I trust you,” I say. “I don’t know if I could ever trust anyone else.” 

“Good,” he says, pulling me closer again. “I’ll kill the guy who sticks his lousy hand up your ass.”

I rise on tiptoes so I can kiss his lips. He’s looking at something (or nothing) in the middle distance, as usual refusing to own his bizarrely affectionate words.

“But why won’t you?” I’m worried I’m whining like Michael, but I want this. I really do . . . At least I think I do. Plus, I've noticed Michael's whining usually works on Brian.

“Why won’t I handball you?” Brian asks. “Let me count the reasons: (a) you’re too young . . .”

I interrupt him. “How old were you when that Phillip guy did it to you?”

Brian had been looking at me, but his gaze returns to the middle distance. “That’s immaterial,” he replies.

I laugh. “You were seventeen, weren’t you? Huh? Admit it! You were 'jailbait.'”

“Eighteen,” Brian snapped. “I was eighteen. Still older than you are.”

“By a couple of months.”

“By long enough. Besides I was used to having things stuck up my ass by then. You would be too if you’d started as soon as your balls dropped.”

Jesus Christ. He is unbelievable. He must’ve been some kind of butt-fucking prodigy. I want to giggle nervously, but it’s actually kind of sad for some reason, and he isn’t smiling.

“Your cute little ass is as tight as a keyhole,” he elaborates. “No matter how careful I was, I’d probably injure you. So there’s no way. Deal with it.”

“Well, then can I at least watch you do it to someone else? Can’t you find someone in the backroom we could take home?”

He pulls away and puts his hands on my shoulders again. “No one but a complete fucking dick wad would handball in the backroom of a club, and I don’t do it at home. It’s too weird. And I _definitely_ don’t do it when I’m high. Sober at the baths with plenty of time to spare or not at all.”

“Okay,” I say, looking up at him with the same irresistible, pleading expression I give my mom when I want her to take me to Nike Town. “So we can’t do it tonight. What about some other time?”

Brian looks at me for a long time before he answers. “If I say yes, will you stop talking about it?”

I cross my heart. “I promise.”

He just nods. “I’ll _think_ about it,” he says. “But it’ll have to be with someone I already know – someone who already trusts me, and you might not like it. He’s . . . well, he’s the closest anyone’s ever come to being a sought-after fuck.”

I swallow. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I won’t be able to handle it.

“Think about it long and hard,” he says and punctuates his seriousness by not making a pun.

 

A couple of weeks pass until, in true Justin Taylor form, my curiosity eventually outweighs my reservations, and after more dogged nagging, Brian finally relents.

“Just tell me who he is first,” I say.

“A guy I met in college,” he replies vaguely. “My age. Ph.D. and that’s all you need to know.”

I nod. “Is he good looking?”

Brian answers my question with a raised eyebrow that clearly asks if I _really_ think he’d ever hook up with a guy who wasn’t good looking.

“How good looking?” I ask.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he replies. “Because it doesn’t sound like it.”

I take a deep breath. “Yeah,” I say. “I want to do this. Where are we going?”

“The baths. I’ll ask him which one he’d prefer. Always let the fistee choose the surroundings.”

I pretend to pull a pen from behind my ear and jot down his words on an invisible notepad. He rolls his eyes.

“You’re such a twat,” he tells me in a tone that sounds like fondness.

 

It turns out Mr. Ph.D. wants to go to some fancy-schmancy bathhouse Brian’s never taken me to before. 

“It’s expensive and requires a membership,” Brian explains. “I have one but it’s probably out of date. He’s been going there for years though; I’m sure he can get us in on guest passes.”

“Guest passes?” I say. “It sounds like a gym.”

“And looks like one too. There’s a pool and saunas and shit. And the rooms actually get cleaned on a daily basis. It’s nice, but I like my fucking dirty and poorly lit. Bonus points if there’s florescent lighting and I can see come on the walls.”

I shudder. Ew. For someone whose maid comes twice a week, Brian can be really gross sometimes.

 

When we arrive, our names are already in the computer, and the guy at the front desk with an orchid on it gives us towels and waves us through with the same blandly pleasant smile ticket takers give you at the theater. We walk down a hall with a slate floor and gleaming white tiles on the walls.

“Shower first,” Brian says when we enter the luxurious locker room. 

We strip and put our stuff in two of the lockers. Brian’s dick is already at half-mast, and it hardens into a full-on boner as he kisses me under one of the shower heads. He takes my hand and guides it down to wrap my fingers around it.

“Jerk me off,” he whispers huskily against my ear, shoving his pelvis forward as my hand slides down his rigid shaft.

I frown up at him questioningly. “Don’t you want to be hard for this?”

He shakes his head and then kisses me again. “This isn’t about me,” he says cryptically. 

I slick my hand with the soap from the dispenser hanging on the wall. Brian rests his chin on top of my head as I start stroking him. I know he’s watching the other guys in the room all of whom are sporting their own boners. A few start stroking themselves in time with my motions, their eyes fixed on my hand.

“That’s it,” Brian groans as I loosely twist my fingers around the head of his cock as though it’s a bottle cap I’m trying to open. “A little tighter. That’s right. Ah . . .”

His cock is the most stunning cock I’ve ever seen, and before you roll your eyes and ask how many cocks I’ve seen to compare his with, I’ll assure you that I’ve been watching _a lot_ of porn since I met Brian. In fact we watch it together. None of the actors’ dicks can hold a candle to Brian’s – not necessarily because his is bigger (after all we’re talking porn stars here) – but it’s more beautiful. Straight with a clearly defined head that gets purple when he’s really hard. The veins are pronounced but not in a gross kind of way, and once his cock is stiff, it never softens until after he’s come – at least never in my presence - and sometimes not even then.

I stand on my toes and whisper in his ear, asking him whether it's okay if I go down on him. He chuckles with amusement at me feeling like I need ask and answers by placing both hands on my shoulders, pushing me to my knees. When I take his cock in my mouth, I hear one of the guys come with a long, pained-sounding groan.

“Found yourself one gorgeous mouth there,” a guy says from behind me, and I bristle slightly as I picture myself as nothing but a giant pair of lips walking around on spindly, knock-kneed legs.

“Hey,” Brian replies, his voice casual and friendly. “This is Justin. I’m sure he’d introduce himself, but he’s kind of busy right now.”

The guy laughs good-naturedly. “I’m going to meet you in the room,” he says. “If I watch the two of you much longer, I’m going to blow a nut. Give me about fifteen minutes.”

“The room’s got a sling, I hope,” Brian replies. “And a leather one. I hate those cheap pleather ones. They get all slimy.”

“Always the snob,” the guy says fondly. “Later.”

Brian would’ve probably replied in kind except I choose that precise moment to shallow his cock, and all that escapes his mouth is a strangled groan as he shoots down my throat. “Later” is _my_ fucking word.

When I look up, Brian is smirking at me. “You’re jealous,” he says. “And what's more, it turns out jealousy improves your already acceptable cock-sucking skills. Note to self.”

Great. Just what I need. More jealousy.

“Fuck you,” I say. He helps me to my feet and puts his arm around me, pulling me close for a long, deep kiss as he reaches down with the other and wraps his fingers around my dick.

 

When Brian told me we’d be there a while, I’d imagined forty-five minutes or an hour at most. Boy, was I wrong. The whole thing, from preparation to clean-up, took more than two hours! The whole time the room was eerily quiet (considering it's a bathhouse) except for Brian’s murmured encouragement and the guy’s deep but tattered breaths and occasional groans. Now and then, they conversed with each other, Brian asking how he’s doing, and the guy answering in (at least to my mind) shockingly personal terms. 

Brian had brought with him a tight-fitting, elbow-length, black rubber glove with a yellow circle around it a little more than halfway up his forearm. “That marks how deep I'll go,” he explains to me in a hushed voice. “Too deep, and you can really hurt someone. The rectum’s stretchy, but it's only about five inches long with a six-inch circumference before it turns into the large colon after a curve that you can straighten to go deeper, but only very slowly. Some assholes try to force things, but that's not my style. This isn't some kind of competition.”

I’d expected to be turned on like crazy, but I didn’t even get chubby until Brian has his hand fully inserted and begins to fuck the guy with it. By that time, the guy’s own cock is hard and leaking. He starts moaning continuously, his eyes softly closed and his head rolling from side to side.

“Deeper?” Brian asks calmly, and the guy nods.

Brian still has his towel wrapped around his waist, but I can see the fabric's tented where his erection is pushing on it. There’s almost as much sweat on his face and chest as there is on the guy’s, but there’s no sign that Brian’s going to lose control. Not even the slightest hint. I’m seriously impressed. I reach inside my own towel and start touching myself.

“Don’t,” Brian whispers. “Too distracting.”

There’re a lot of icky squishy-squelchy sounds; to prepare the guy’s ass, Brian had used gobs of thick lubricant that looked like Crisco but wasn’t. The task took _forever_. I also notice the inside of the guy’s ass is bright pink. It’s scary looking, very much like I’d imagined intestines to look like and not in a good, sexy kind of way.

I must look a tad green because Brian asks if I “need some air.” I shake my head; I’d been the one who’d wanted this.

The guy is spreading his legs as wide as they can possibly go. His face is beet red, and he's blubbering like a baby. Sinews stand out starkly in his neck. Tears stream steadily from his eyes. But for his rigid cock, it’s impossible to know whether he’s experiencing pleasure or pain. Probably both. I find myself trying to imagine Brian in the guy’s place and can’t. There’s absolutely _no_ dignity involved. It actually looks kinda like the guy is giving birth, especially when Brian starts to gradually remove his hand.

“God, I need to come,” the guy gasps as Brian’s knuckles catch on the rim of his hole.

Brian pauses. “Think about writing your dissertation,” he says with indulgent amusement. He turns to me. “Don’t let your bottom come while your hand is still inside him. Everything will tighten up afterward and make withdrawal unpleasant for him.”

I nod. I don’t tell him that the whole thing from start to finish looks unpleasant. But it’s by far the worst thing that's happened all evening when Brian asks me to meet him in the locker room.

When he joins me twenty minutes later, the guy isn’t with him, and Brian no longer has a hard-on. I have to go to a toilet stall because I start to cry. My emotions are suddenly all over the place. I can’t say that I wish I hadn’t witnessed this experience . . . but pretty damn close. I’m silent and upset the whole way back to the loft and just barely not shaking.

Brian parks the Jeep in his spot and turns to me. “Hey,” he says softly and turns my head to look at him.

I swallow, but the tears spring to my eyes anyway.

“Do you love him?” I ask in a voice that sounds to me very much like a child’s.

Brian shrugs. “I don’t think so.”

“Sure seemed like it,” I sniffle.

“It’s a pretty intense experience,” he replies. “Not many people share that kind of trust with anyone. It’s got to be fucking absolute.”

I wrench my chin out of his hand. I don’t really trust him, and we both know it. He’s deliberately hurt me too many times.

“I doubt I’ll ever have that with anyone,” I choke. “He’s lucky.”

Brian shrugs again. “I guess. To the extent anyone would be ‘lucky’ to ‘have’ me.”

I turn to him and give him as defiant a look as I can muster. “Well, he can’t have you. _I_ want you. If you’re going to give yourself to anyone, it’s going to be me.”

I brace myself for one of his soul-blistering replies, but it doesn’t come. Instead he drops his head.

“I shouldn’t have done this,” he says, scrubbing his face with both hands. “I shouldn’t have let you see that. I know you’ll want me to do it to you now, and I won’t.”

I shove open the door, jump out of the Jeep and start running down the sidewalk. Brian catches up and grabs me from behind, holding me as I struggle to escape.

“Leave me alone!” I yell at him. He merely squeezes me tighter.

“Knock it off, you little shit,” he hisses in my ear. “And grow the fuck up while you’re at it. You need to _trust_ me not to hurt you – physically _and_ emotionally – before I’d ever do that with you. You’re a moron if you trust me, and I know you're not a moron. At least I think I do.”

I sag in his arms, exhausted – and, yes, traumatized.

“Why won’t you let me trust you?” I say around a half-sob.

“Because I’m not trustworthy,” he snaps, and there’s a long pause before he adds so quietly that it's like he doesn't mean for me to hear, “at least not when it comes to you.” He turns me around and pulls me into a hug, cradling the back of my head with the same hand he’d used to fist Mr. Fucking Ph.D.

I expect him to let me go after a second, but he keeps holding me tightly. The embrace goes on and on. And on.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry folks. No sexy picture for this one. As Justin observed, getting fisted isn't a very dignified sight. Although I did find it amusing that when I Googled images of male anuses I got a picture of Rush Limbaugh.


End file.
